


Maybe It's Because I'm a Londoner

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1940s, AU - Historical, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The noise on Baker Street was deafening. Tables and chairs had been pulled out of front doors, bunting hung between houses haphazardly, food made and plated and offered to everyone. Music blared loudly from somewhere and children wearing paper hats squealed as they ran along, chasing one another.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>May, 1945. V-E Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe It's Because I'm a Londoner

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Maybe It's Because I'm a Londoner](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ln3sidFtIAU). My favourite version's by Billy Cotton (complete with comedy regional accents), which is available on Spotify, but not YouTube, unfortunately.

May, 1945.  
V-E Day

The noise on Baker Street was deafening. Tables and chairs had been pulled out of front doors, bunting hung between houses haphazardly, food made and plated and offered to everyone. Music blared loudly from somewhere and children wearing paper hats squealed as they ran along, chasing one another.

John stood in the doorway of 221, watching his neighbours celebrate, a small glass of punch in his hand.

‘Doctor Watson!’ Mrs Hudson called, looking giddy as she waved from her chair at the long table. ‘Come and join us!’

‘In a moment I will,’ John replied, smiling and lifting his glass to her. He wore his usual trousers and braces, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie knotted loosely at his throat. 

It was near sunset. The celebrations had lasted the entire day and showed no sign of slowing; barrels and bottles of alcohol were in plentiful supply (clearly having been kept back precisely for this occasion) and a piano had recently been dragged out onto the street. An elderly man sat at its stool, occupied with tuning up.

John sipped his punch and leant against the doorframe, smiling as he watched the children run and giggle. He glanced down towards the end of the street and huffed a laugh, his face splitting into a wide grin at what he saw there.

Sherlock walked slowly towards John in the half-light, grey jacket slung over his shoulder, only his shirt and an old mauve pullover a barrier between his skin and the slight chill. A cigarette dangled from his fingers and he inhaled from it leisurely as he carried on walking down the street, sidestepping children and a dog and a line of brown and green bottles lined up along the pavement.

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ John murmured as Sherlock finally came to a stop, leaning against the wall and just smiling at John, his eyes wrinkled at the corners. ‘Well well.’

The clock in the hallway struck for half past eight.

‘I called in a favour,’ Sherlock said. ‘Still took me all day to get here.’

‘I didn’t think you’d be coming. When I couldn’t get through--’

‘I had to see you.’

John smiled, his eyes wrinkling at the corners.

‘Let’s go up,’ Sherlock said quietly.

The living room was filled with the deep glow of sunset, long shadows dancing across it. Sherlock shut the door by leaning against it and let his jacket fall to the floor as he pulled John tight against him, fingers clenching and unclenching at the small of John’s back. John cradled the back of Sherlock’s head, holding Sherlock’s face against his neck. He brushed his nose and lips against Sherlock’s hairline, content to hold him close. It was several minutes before John moved first, bringing their mouths together, pulling Sherlock’s lower lip between his own. Sherlock’s answering gasp could just be heard over the sounds of merrymaking from outside.

‘Bed,’ Sherlock said, pushing one of John’s braces off his shoulders, spidery hands suddenly everywhere. ‘Take me to bed.’

John groaned deeply, beginning to walk backwards even as he captured Sherlock’s lips again, biting and sucking frantically. Sherlock unbuttoned John’s shirt as they staggered through the kitchen to the bedroom, untucking John’s vest from the waistband of his trousers. 

‘I should have known you’d find a way of getting here,’ John said, shouldering the bedroom door open, hands grabbing at Sherlock’s waist, plucking at his woolen pullover. 

‘I’m good at managing the impossible.’ Sherlock was almost breathless as he pushed John down onto the bed and climbed on top of him, shoving John’s vest up to press his lips to John’s lightly furred chest. ‘ _God_.’

The dying light cast a hazy glow over the bedroom, the sounds of the street party leaking in through the thin windows, the curtains drawn over half of the pane. John guided Sherlock away from his chest and sat up, getting rid of his tie, shirt and vest before tugging his trousers down. Sherlock had thrown his clothes to the floor on his side of the bed and was sprawled on his back, throwing his legs open once he’d wrestled his trousers and pants off.

‘Look at you,’ John murmured, climbing atop Sherlock so that his knees were either side of Sherlock’s waist, bending to bring their lips together in a soft kiss. Sighing, Sherlock grabbed the backs of John’s thighs and arched his hips upwards, fingers twitching at the sensation the movement caused.

‘Come along, John, I can’t wait,’ Sherlock mumbled when John began to kiss down the pale line of Sherlock’s throat, pressing his hips up a few more times, tightening his grip on John’s legs.

‘Perhaps I’d like to take my time with you, now I can,’ John replied, smirking even as he began to move with Sherlock, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s length.

‘N-not an option,’ Sherlock said, moving his own hand to provide John with some attention. ‘Later... Tomorrow... You can have me slow and sweet and whatever the bloody hell else you want but...’

‘As you wish.’ Sweat broke out at John’s temples as he thrust into Sherlock’s grip. ‘My god, you’re lovely,’ he murmured, kissing Sherlock again, lying half on top of him.

They began to move together at a steady pace. Their gasping breaths and quiet moans punctuated the sounds of the party outside, down on the street.

‘I love you,’ Sherlock murmured, kissing the dampness at John’s hairline before throwing his own head back, hair dark against the mint green pillowcase. 

‘And I love you,’ John replied, lacing the fingers of his right hand with Sherlock’s, pinning it to the mattress as he thrust harder into Sherlock’s fist, seeking completion. Sherlock’s grip tightened as John’s pace increased, both of them panting for breath through open mouths.

‘Kiss me,’ Sherlock demanded, eyes half-lidded as he gazed up at John, lust-drunk and pink-cheeked and beatific. ‘Kiss me.’

John obliged; he kissed Sherlock almost violently, their teeth and tongues colliding as still they moved together, chasing climax. Sherlock was first. He squeezed John’s hand and groaned into John’s mouth as he went over the edge, hips thrusting arrhythmically. John followed less than a minute later, muscles tight and tense as he gritted his teeth, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s.

They both smiled giddily at each another as they caught their breath. A breeze swept in through the thin window, cooling the sweat on their skin.

***

‘Oh, _Sherlock_!’ Mrs Hudson exclaimed when the two of them re-appeared outside, having washed, re-dressed and combed their hair. ‘How on earth did you manage to sneak past me? You naughty thing, come here, come here.’ She stood and stretched to kiss him wetly on the cheek, wrapping her arms around his middle. Sherlock smiled indulgently, eyes widening when he smelt the alcohol on her breath. 

‘I wouldn’t get too near the fire if I were you, Mrs Hudson,’ he said warmly, letting her pat his back and fuss over him, her eyes unfocused. 

‘Sound advice, dear,’ she said, petting his hands and then walking over to where some crates of alcohol were stacked, tipping forwards slightly.

‘Well, that’s something I’ve not seen in a while,’ Sherlock said with a bit of a laugh, sitting down at the long table, pulling a chair out for John.

‘You’re right there,’ John agreed, smiling as Mrs Hudson staggered back over to them through the crowd and pressed an ale into each of their hands.

‘Drink up, boys, you especially, Sherlock, you’ve got a lot of catching up to do, young man,’ she said in a pantomime whisper before being caught around the waist and pulled, whooping, into an enthusiastic polka by the greengrocer from down the road.

‘This is all very surreal,’ Sherlock murmured, watching the dancing, the children running, the drinking and singing that was going on around them. He pinched a slice of pork pie from the table. ‘And the lyrics to this song don’t make any sense.’

‘I don’t think anyone’s bothered, my dear,’ John said quietly, brave enough to brush Sherlock’s knee as he reached for a crab paste sandwich.

‘No. No, I don’t imagine they are.’ Sherlock smiled at John and began to tap his knee in time with the beat of the song being played.

Lanterns were being brought out of houses to add to the light of the streetlamps. Lights in front rooms remained on and the curtains pulled open. Candles in bottles, wax spilling over the sides, littered the pavement and the long table in the middle of the street.

‘This really doesn’t seem real,’ Sherlock said, looking around himself and shaking his head. ‘It can’t be real.’

John drained his beer and cuffed Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Buck up. It’ll be real soon enough when we start arguing about fingers in the colander again.’

‘God. I can hardly believe I get to do things to fingers again.’

John laughed loudly. ‘And toes, and ears, and kidneys, and many more things besides.’

Sherlock smiled and sipped his ale.

‘Spoken to Harry?’

‘This morning, yes. She sends her love. How’s Mycroft?’

‘Fat. Smug. Fine.’

There was a moment of silence between the two of them. 

‘Let’s get drunk,’ John said.

‘Yes.’ Sherlock slammed his hand on the table and downed what remained of his drink. ‘Yes, let’s. I’ll get the gin.’

***

An hour later, John had established himself behind a makeshift bar, mixing cocktails for the residents of Baker Street with the contents of his and Sherlock’s drinks cabinet, as well as some other donated bottles. For his part, Sherlock had been bullied into fetching his violin from the flat and was accompanying the elderly pianist as they played for the people dancing (Mrs Hudson still included amongst their number).

John watched fondly as Sherlock finished playing _Roll Out the Barrel_ (again) and took a bow, making his way over to John’s bar.

‘Whiskey sour, please, barkeep,’ Sherlock said with a smirk. 

‘It’ll have to be without the sour, I’m afraid,’ John replied, smiling back. ‘There’s been a war on, you know.’

Sherlock laughed as John mixed the whiskey and soda water for him. ‘Dance with me, later?’

‘Sherlock--’

‘Everyone’s far too drunk to notice. Or care, for that matter.’

‘As long as it looks like we’re joking--’

‘Deal.’ Sherlock took his drink from John and clinked it against a rum bottle, clearly pleased with himself as he strutted back over to the piano.

***

By the time _American Patrol_ was put on the record player, Sherlock and John, and everybody else, were considerably drunker than they had been earlier in the night. The children, for the most part, were asleep in people’s laps, but the majority of the residents of Baker Street remained outside, dancing in the half-light from the moon and the bonfire.

‘Doctor Watson, you owe me a dance,’ Sherlock slurred, his hands resting on the back of John’s chair as he leant down to speak in John’s ear.

John lay down his hand of cards and smiled, eyes unfocused, at the men he was playing poker with, gesturing for them to lean in. ‘Mr. Holmes here has bet me one shilling he can dance the woman’s part in a quickstep. Shall we see him put his money where his mouth is?’ 

The others laughed and slapped their knees, nodding eagerly.

‘Haven’t been practising, have you, son?’ The red-faced grocer who’d taken a fancy to Mrs Hudson asked Sherlock.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Sherlock winked and tapped his nose with his forefinger, his movements big and clumsy, before he hauled John out of his seat.

‘Start it again!’ he demanded of the young lad of about fourteen who was controlling the record player, waving his hand imperiously. ‘Start the record again!’ He pulled John onto the makeshift dance floor (wooden boards laid flat on the street’s cobbles) and assumed his position. ‘Stop giggling, John,’ he slurred as they waited for the record to begin again. ‘Serious business, this is.’

‘Oh yes, very serious,’ John mumbled, giggling as he rested his palm on Sherlock’s upper back, oblivious to the audience they had attracted at the edge of the floor. ‘We haven’t quickstepped since before the war, this is--’

‘Madness. Come along.’ Sherlock urged John to move and soon they were flying around the dancefloor in a quickstep, stumbling occasionally. They lasted about a minute before John began to laugh loudly when he saw the manic smile Sherlock had plastered onto his face in imitation of professional dancers, losing his rhythm and having to stop to hold his stomach as he laughed.

The small crowd they had attracted applauded and cheered, most of them laughing as well.

‘You owe me a shilling, Watson,’ Sherlock said, grinning and taking the bottle of ale that was pushed into his hands, swigging from it. ‘I’m not the one who cocked that up.’

Other couples moved back into the space John and Sherlock had vacated as John dug in his pocket and handed a shilling over to Sherlock. Sherlock grinned and flicked the coin to the boy manning the record player and flung his arm around John’s shoulders. ‘And you still owe me a dance,’ he murmured against John’s ear, breath warm and moist in the late night chill.

***

‘Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner...’

Dawn had begun to break over Baker Street by the time Sherlock and John staggered up the seventeen steps to 221b. Sherlock was still rather tipsy, not having as great a tolerance for alcohol as John, who was mostly sober as he guided Sherlock up the stairs, a hand on the small of his back. Sherlock was singing softly to himself in a convincing Cockney accent, his shirt untucked and tie loose, pullover draped over his shoulders.

‘That I love London so...’

‘Nice little tune.’

‘Isn’t it just?’ Sherlock improvised the tune with a few ‘las’ and ‘das’ as John unlocked the door to their flat and they stepped inside. ‘Let’s go up to the roof. You still owe me that dance.’

‘We’ve no music,’ John said, laughing and shutting the door behind them, turning the lock.

‘Don’t be silly.’ Sherlock nudged John towards the stairs. ‘Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner...’ he continued as they walked up the stairs and John unlocked the door that led to the roof. 

The weak morning sunlight spilled over the bench and dead potted plant the roof was home to. Sherlock pulled John close and kissed his forehead, arranging them both in a loose hold, beginning to sway back and forth. Sherlock began to sing again, barely above a whisper.

‘Long the skies were overcast, but now the clouds have passed, you’re here at last...’

‘Sentimental old thing,’ John murmured, kissing Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock kissed John’s cheek.

‘Just one look, and then I knew... that all I longed for, long ago, was you...’

They were quiet; breathing in the scent of each other and of London, of celebration bonfires still burning and of smog and pollution. Sherlock turned his face towards where the light was strongest, in the east. ‘I love you,’ he whispered into John’s neck. 

Both of them continued to dance slowly to music that wasn’t playing.

‘Welcome home,’ John said, gently scratching the hair at Sherlock’s nape. He smiled against Sherlock’s skin, his nose pressed into Sherlock’s cheek. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

‘Mmm. Light me a fag whilst you’re at it.’

‘Anything else, sir?’

‘Clear out part of the refrigerator. I’ll need it for fingers soon enough.’

John threw his head back and laughed, loud and carefree.

The two of them walked falteringly back down the stairs hand-in-hand, exhausted and happy. John made tea and Sherlock held a cigarette between his lips as he cut out the headline of the previous day’s newspaper and pinned it to the wall. Last night’s bonfires slowly burnt out. Multicoloured streamers lay scattered about the streets and rows and rows of regimented bottles guarded Baker Street. The downstairs clock chimed for quarter past six. The sun rose.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read even a bit of this 'verse, and especially to those of you who've stuck with it up 'til now! There could well be more of this at some point, perhaps a sequel, or more interludes, or what have you, but for now the story I wanted to tell has been told. I've absolutely loved writing this AU and I hope you've enjoyed reading it, too.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Long Ago and Far Away: A fanmix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4459376) by [hertie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hertie/pseuds/hertie)




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